Monday, January 13, 2014

the clock: ticks (obviously)performs a one-man rendition of Faustus.controls.
your immediate futureresides
inside the head of the man with one finger on the pulse of society and the other on the trigger.is ahead of the game.waits patiently in the shadowswith or without your acknowledgements…grabs you when you are not looking. rifles through your pockets for any loose change.pretends to be on your side (with its minute-hand around your shoulder like a pal but stuffs the blade into your back with the hour-hand)disguises itself as money.takes her own sweet time at the DMV yet races at breakneck pace when on vacation.tells of tiny romances and innocence in a box of photos tucked away in a dusty storage closet.reminds us of the finite and not-so-finite…of our mortality and someone else’s immortality…bastard-child of the sun and the moon and great-grandson to the universe and charged with the blinking history of man.pays no heed to the laws of gravity and can existoutside time.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

They showed him quite a bit. As a matter of fact, they showed him all of it –– at least all his limited-capacity brain could process. He got it, allright. They showed him that his beloved little planet was to undergo quite a reckoning in the near future – “sooner than you think” he recalled hearing. Then the questions came: why? why was he ‘being shown’ this, why was ‘he’ being shown this? What could he do with such information? He had never been taught the protocol and etiquette on what to do if hyper-dimensional beings that manipulate time/space reality of human beings were to come to him, telepathically notify him of his status of virtual lab-animal, and the lab was going to be shut down for renovations. As he was being relayed this information, he knew he would either have to remain mum (and essentially play-act within this soon-to-be destroyed artificial habitat) or be committed into another habitat for insane people, because he would indeed be viewed as totally nuts if he were to attempt to “warn” his fellow lab-animals. At that time – how he wished his 20 year old brain could just be wiped clean – that he could just go back to “life as normal” and move onward in blissful ignorance of the alien scrutiny he had become aware of.
He attempted to meander through the next few years – but in a sullen state of mild despair and nihilistic depression. He had gotten committed a few times – they wanted him institutionalized. He drank. He wept. He bummed around. Not until he met a truck-driver named Woods did he realize that he had only gotten a certain angle of the story―an angle that was shown for the advantage of the one telling it: yes, there were interdimensional beings manipulating humans for their own advantage. Yes, they had been around a very long time, and would seem to a young man to be like his gods. But: Woods had imparted to him: they had mindfucked him to try to get him to yield his spirit – his life-source-code – to them. that is what they feed off of. Woods knew. He was one of them – and he was rebelling against them.

Monday, January 6, 2014

....so in conclusion, you have been
shanghaied, are on your way to work on shithole planet jacking-into
the system of mineral deposits, and loading it onto intergalactic
freighters, or some stuff like that. Your mind has been
commandeered, your identity confiscated, your thoughts locked up, and
you will be a slave now. how do you like that? who cares...

-

the deal is there is no deal. We are
on the verge of fairly obvious paradigm shift, and most of the addled
populace will not know how to react. “Television didn’t prepare
me for this one”... No – as a matter of fact, it has stripped
your mind of all base survival instinct programming, reprogrammed
fear and submission code and a bunch of virus applications that
actually destroy your system in the background while you keep it
running. In other words – you have been programmed to either
a)self destruct or b)not care that you are being destroyed. this is
the way it is...this is how it goes. While I am telling you this –
you are being systematically dismantled. Why am I telling you this?
I suppose I only wanted to help you, but I can see now that their
infection into your Operating System and wetware has gone so far that
all you do is laugh, deny, poke fun, and talk shit at me while the
very hacker I am pointing out to you is deranging your code and
savaging you. Do not blame me when you malfunction – ye have been
warned....

Thursday, January 2, 2014

“conquer the blank page” I have
just read. Hemingway typed standing up – like he was shadow-boxing
with the typewriter...

Now, we sit at desks and behind glowing
screens like pimply-faced drone pilots -- out of range and detached.
The key is to get in there and swing. Who cares of the fact
that I am repeating myself or else regurgitanig prior opinions I’ve
already digested?

Another good one: “serve the story,
not your ego”. That reminds me of one of the first things
mentioned in the first class I took in college, and intro to creative
writing class where the teacher stated “do not fall in love with
your own handwriting” You bet – don’t get too involved
with those words you think are gold ether, and don’t think that
your farts ain’t vile, buck-o – cuase they is... The problem I
have: I never seem to find a story. Then that becomes “the story”
(I wrote a short film about a character looking for a story, much in
the spirit of Pirandello's “Five Characters in Search of an
Author”, whereas the metastory was about the search for a
story). But even these “clever” high-artisms get played out,
like magic tricks – they are fascinating as an intellectual
exercise but lack emotional movement. That’s what the fans
want – to be moved, to laugh and to cry. those are the two. Sure,
it’s nice to “impress” people, particularly females when you
are a young male, or vice-versa, (or males if you swing the other
way, same for females – you get the idea.) But to simply “wow”
people will leave them impressed, but not necessarily fulfilled. I
think that’s why Twain commanded to keep things simple – therein
lies the genius: to take a complex equation and simplify it: is that
not what mathematics and physics yearn? the unifying theory that ties
things together in an easy soundbite? That’s not to say we must
churn out hackneyed garbage sans smarts – that, in my opinion is
patronizing the masses: calling them stupid and throwing it in
their faces by force-feeding them stupid shit. Nay – a good book
should make people more intelligent in a way—emotionally,
intellectually, or spiritually...(or all)—in a way, it should be a
source of nourishment for the mind and the soul, not junk-food...

I perceived a sophisticated jigsaw-puzzle of
millions of tiny, reverberating pieces locked in a slow, undulating rhythm. Do you see the patterns? Those patterns are the fabric of
time and space, my son – any hippy that’s worth his weight in LSD
can tell you that. The lattice-like architecture resonates with a
translucent green-red glow, spots or nebulous forms… networld –
the net is intricate and complex mosaic in three or four dimensions,
but it is visible to the human eye, if you have the correct
lens and operational application of mind… LSD of course speeds
this up and embellishes it – but the influx of large amounts of raw
universal data on the psychic/physical level tends to “overload”
the system- - the conscious operating system doesn’t know how to
decipher the large volume of rapidly ingested quantum data, so it
will do it’s best to “make sense” of it – hence the classic
“hallucination” or “seeing things” – the system is seeing
“everything” and attempting to categorize those things. Overload
– or bus crash – is the “freak out”. The system simply
cannot handle the volume and data-rate absorption – so the mind-OS
shuts down, goes to sleep, reboots, or fries the motherboard.
Imagine: suddenly not only having infinite data but ongoing
absorption of that data. And you don’t have the proper
“application” to run, interpret, decipher, utilize, or express
that data. That is what a heavy-duty acid trip is—jamming a
billion-terabytes of information into a computer that can store it,
but cannot do anything with it. Our brains can handle an enormous
amounts of information – thousands of percents more than we do
now…but we haven’t developed the proper “wetware apps” to use
them. Perhaps soon the Allmighty Software Designer will upgrade us…
Are you a file to be saved, or tossed into the recycle bin? Your
choice. That is freedom – the ability to choose, sans coercion –
whether you want freedom or you want to be a slave….

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

the dream was definitely strange
– as dreams are wont to be…needless to say, it went something
like this:

“this won’t do” the man appeared
in the room from nowhere. A mild rain and grey times, as usual in
grungy Seattle. He scoped the room and went out into the yard.
“we’ll modify and fortify this place later. Right now, we’ve
gotta get you hidden.”

In the yard existed an underground
bomb-shelter—the house was a toss-back from the 50’s frantic
paranoia… we used it as a storage shed. We climbed down; the
mustiness kicked hard. He found a can wd-40 and handed it to me.
“Before he shows up, spray it around. It’s a cloaking agent for
their devices.” I shrugged and asked no questions. This man
obviously was an expert. He climbed out of the shelter and closed
the latch. I heard him tossing dirt and rocks and debris over the
hatch and wander off back to the house. I could see him though.
He grabbed the land-line phone and carried it to the porch. They
are going to call to make sure you’re home. I will answer as you –
they don’t know the sound of your voice. He communicated
telepathically. Questions will be answered later. Get the WD
ready...

The telephone rang..he waited 2 rings
then picked up. “Hello?.....Speaking” He hung up, carried the
phone back inside, came out with a small rifle and climbed under the
elevated front porch.

A black late-60’s model Buick crawled
up and parked in front. A bear of a mulletted man in a green army
jacket and loose-fitting cargo-pants ambled up to the porch. He had
a pistol in hand and another one hanging loosely from his ass. My
protector scoped him from underneath. The to-be-assassin moseyed
into my house and rummaged around. Two other men met him – both
disheveled and motley. They had entered from the back. The three
rummaged through our thrift-store decorated house and got kicks from
the two mannequins filled with miscellaneous knick-knacks. They were
definitely looking for something particular, besides me. The main
mulleted guy – the captain of the team – slung my old pair of
ski-boots over his shoulder, and one of his side-kicks had one of the
mannequins in tow as they exited my house and they dropped and died
before hearing the three rifle shots…

-

Of course, I can’t forget about
skydiving while under the influence of psilocybin mushrooms while
skydiving – I saw everything….

-

Where does the part about the maniacal
performance artist who would go on 2 week sleepless amphetamine
binges then stage “performances” whereupon anything might
happen, always of a frantic, bizarre and stupefying ilk, fit in? Not
certain, except the show that I patronized he brandished a large
revolver pistol and began firing into the stunned audience, who
scattered like hunted deer—and I hit the deck and played dead,
until he approached me and threatened to execute me – I realized he
had blanks.

-

The gist of the story: I had become a
TPV – telepathic viewer – who had remotely witnessed a
very high profile megalomaniacal but beloved tech. pioneer
billionaire Gill Bates murder his wife. This occurred while
in mid-flight skydiving and peaking on mushrooms. I tacked it up to
simply a random bizarre temporary drug-induced psychotic vision, but
nay! I had tapped into the invisible CCTV of meta-reality, and
actually seen the man inject his wife with a cocktail of secretly
developed adjuvents that are non-detectable. So the papers and
authorities and the entire Seattle area along with the rest of the
western world sent their heartfelt condolences to the poor grieving
Mr. Bates when they learned that she had developed a fast-acting and
irreparable cancer that overtook and killed her within days. I
thought “wow, what a coincidence” when I read about it a week
after my skydiving session, and I mentioned my “weird vision” to
a group of acquaintances at a bonfire bbq session we attended the
following Saturday.

Bates had developed a wide network of
surveillance technologies in everything that would record everything
and had them installed in light poles, electric boxes, televisions,
cd players – he had, after all “donated” all these items to the
city and thrift stores and anywhere else that anybody would buy, use,
wear, watch, etc. Every piece of audio was digitally recorded and if
his name was mentioned in a given piece of audio, that data was
flagged and stored into a network database in an underground and
super-secret location then analyzed by former intelligence spooks
that had found the employ of him far more lucrative than the govt.
sector. Mostly they sifted through people praising the man for his
wonderful contributions to society and his philanthropy to the needy
and downtrodden people, particularly on the African continent. Every
now and then, they would parse out some random drunk shit-talker and
if he felt like it Mr. Bates would either fuck with him by
burning-out his TV during a Seahawks game or would send the man a
thousand-dollar check as a random “chance” lottery and token of
appreciation to the citizenry of Seattle – pending his mood.

With my “vision” he took a deeper
interest: I was “spot on” in what I saw. He knew that I knew
and he wanted to know how I knew. After all, I was just a
grunged-out low-rent artist that had nothing against the man – I
had hitherto expressed indifference to the guy my life…Or was I?
His own megalomaniacal paranoia had conjectured that I was a
super-deep cover operative – of either a .gov agency or
rival company, and was either around to bring his vast empire down or
else compromise his position via some form of devious blackmail.
Regardless – I had dirt on him and a man of his ego did not like
it one bit. Thus via third-party networks he had hired
professional investigators to surveil me, and for a month the results
were nil: I would paint, go thrift shopping, drink Olympia and smoke
grass on weekends with friends, lead a nondescript lifestyle. This
frustrated him further, because he was convinced that I had
tapped-into some sort of metaphysical reality – one which could be
quantified and exploited for commercial use. So via fourth party
cut-outs he had hired the three thugs to come and rough me up, knock
me out and kidnap me. Had that plan succeeded I would have never seen
the light of day again. I would have lived out the rest of my days
in a lab, ogled over by mind-prodding mad-scientists attempting to
see what the cut of my jib was…

But: he showed up. The
mysterious protector.

-

But: lets cut to the end, shall we? At
the end – in a warehouse, Mr. Bates has a syringe that he plans on
stuffing into me. His personal south-african cargo-plane pilot shows
up. “Oh – it’s you. You’re alive. How about that? I am
busy right now, come see me tomorrow and we’ll talk.” The pilot
doesn’t budge. “I brought some friends, mate.” From the shadows
a group of large and unhappy tribesman step forth. Mr Bates: “Oh?”
Pilot: “Yeah – these guys nursed me back to health, no thanks to
you. Quite frankly I am shocked they didn’t slit me up into pieces
and offer my pieces to their cannibalistic rival tribe… No, boss –
they gave me a lesson on your maiming operation – your soft-kill
plan that has been exterminating these peoples now –rewiring and
tearing apart DNA, etc…. Naw, Boss – I had to re-examine my value
system”. Bates: “Oh. Well – I can pay you way more. How
about your own island?” Pilot: “Mr. Bates, that sounds
marvelous. How about we discuss it after your trial.” Bates:
“Huh?” Pilot: “Yeah – we’re taking you back to the
Savannah—these fellas here, along with their contemporaries – are
gonna give you a fair and speedy trial.” Bates is silent. He
gives a weird and awkward laugh, and makes a dash for it. The pilot
expertly shoots a tranquilizer dart and hits his former boss in the
neck. He hits the deck. The tribesmen take their time carrying his
pathetic body to the cargo plane. In a half daze, Mr. Bates mutters
something incoherently about Icarus, misunderstandings, and that he
didn’t mean to wet himself mommy.